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There's a kid hustling some assholes out of their money.
The kid is definitely not old enough to be in the bar, could barely pass for nineteen if he tried and definitely not the twenty-two his ID claims he is. But in this part of town no one really gives much of a shit about stuff like that; they're not here to get up in each other's business, and if the kid wants to 'sneak' into a bar to win some cash, no one here is going to stop him.
Well, the men currently losing to him probably would've, if they'd known what a little shit the kid was gonna turn out to be.
A cute kid, overall. Would probably prefer 'handsome'. Sixteen or seventeen, with a thick mop of dark hair and bright eyes that are far sharper than teenagers usually have. Clint clocked him the instant he entered, and not just because no one else in here has baby fat on their faces—there's a way the kid moves, a fluidity to him even when he's just shifting, that pinged Clint's radar automatically. Made him keep an eye out.
Which means he had a front row seat to watch the kid bat those wide blue eyes of his and pretend he has no idea how to play pool.
Clint sits back in his booth and nurses a beer, watching. Once upon a time he was just like that kid, wandering into places he probably had no business being in order to try to make some cash. Of course, his attempts ended up leading him down quite the...interesting path, to put it in Matt's more polite word, so maybe he shouldn't be encouraging this. But eh, he's not a cop, and definitely not a snitch. He's not gonna get on some kid for just trying to make some cash.
There's a flash of a smile as the kid sinks his last ball, a satisfied expression when his hair curtains his face enough that his competitors can't see it, and then he turns to them with a delighted, boyish smile that practically screams golly-gee-I've-never-done-that-before!
The men grumble, but they hand over the money they bet, apparently not picking up on the fact that they were so obviously hustled. Maybe they just can't believe a pretty, young face like that could cause any harm. Hell, if they're dumb enough to buy it then they sure as hell deserve to lose their cash.
The kid thanks them, still with those wide eyes of his, and then heads over to the bar. The innocent look drops as soon as his back is to them, and Clint's mouth curves up in an amused smile. He wonders how long this kid's been running games, and what his guardians think he's up to. Wonders why the kid started in the first place.
Because really, the kid's clothes are...high-end. Not brand new, but nice. The kind of quality that comes from having excess money on hand. So it could be this is just some rich kid coming down off his cloud to pretend like he's tough, but in Clint's experience kids like that can't hustle for shit. And they certainly don't leave their fancy homes with their jeans fraying the way this kid's are.
The kid buys a beer, Sally giving him a doubtful look when he presents his ID but still handing over the bottle. She probably saw him at the pool table, too, and Sally has always rewarded people who can get away with shit like that.
The smile the kid offers her in thanks seems far more genuine than any expression he's worn so far, but there's something...tired about the expression that makes Clint—feel things.
(He can practically feel Kate, Natasha, and Bobbi all simultaneously rolling their eyes at him.)
Kid settles down at a table with good sightlines of the place, one hand wrapped loosely around the neck of his beer, the other pulling out a phone and beginning to do something or another on it. His posture is tense, his shoulders hunched. His foot taps restlessly on the floor.
Show over, and not wanting to be a creeper who keeps staring, Clint gets to his feet and heads for the door, starting the short walk back to his building, leaving the kid behind.
The kid's there a couple nights later when Clint goes in to get a drink after a stupid fight with the tracksuit mafia. He's sitting at the same table he was when Clint left the other night, and he's wearing the same clothes. There's a bruise on his cheek that wasn't there before, and it makes Clint pause for a moment before he makes himself dismiss it and turn away to get his drink.
The kid doesn't move at all, the entire time Clint's there. He sits and stares at the wall, occasionally glancing at his phone but otherwise just...staring blankly.
It takes a few hours, but the kid gets up at some point and walks to the door, a burst of cold air pushing inside as he exits. Clint frowns after him, something uneasy in his gut, but he lets it go. The kid randomly leaving isn't cause for alarm, any more than anything else about him is. Not Clint's problem. (Any more than everything else in this city is his problem.)
It's the next day when Clint sees the kid again.
This time it's not at the bar, or anywhere outside at all. This time it's a knock on the door (far, far too early to be alive, and Clint certainly doesn't feel human, despite how happy Lucky is to see him awake).
It takes him a moment to recognize the kid, once he opens his door. It's early, and he hasn't had any coffee, and the excited wagging of Lucky's tail is doing nothing to help him focus. But recognize him he does, and then the confusion sets in.
"Uh," he says. "Hi?"
"You're Clint Barton?" the kid asks. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jacket, a duffle bag hanging from one shoulder. Blue eyes just as sharp now as they were in the bar, and there's something about his relaxed posture that seems...something, Clint doesn't know, it's too early for alarm bells in his brain.
"Yeah," Clint confirms, but he'd really rather not. It's rare that someone asking after him has good intentions, and he doesn't really want to get into a fight or mission right now. He should get a sign on his door; no coming for Hawkeye until at least, like, noon.
"I want an apartment," the kid says bluntly, and, oh, well, that's fine then.
"You old enough to rent an apartment?" Clint asks, because he's tired and the (albeit shitty) filter he usually has is completely gone.
Without batting an eye or any hesitation, the kid says, "I'm twenty-two," with a look on his face like he couldn't care less whether or not Clint believes his bullshit. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
Clint huffs a laugh, but nods. "Right, 'course you are. Okay, right now there are..." he searches his brain, "...three available. I think. C, O, and R."
"You organize the apartments by letters?"
"Yes."
There's a brief ghost of a smile on the kid's face at Clint's response. "Alright. I'll take one. When can I move in?"
So far as building owner, Clint hasn't had to sell anyone on an apartment, but he's pretty sure it requires things like looking at the apartment, and talking about how much it costs, and other adult things like that.
Or, if he's thinking of doing adult things, first on the list would probably be asking the kid why he's running away from home, or telling someone that there's a runaway, because this kid might claim to be twenty-two but he's sure as shit not legal yet, which means there's someone out there missing him.
Well. Clint knows better than most how that might not really be true. There are many, many reasons that no one would be missing you. And even more why you wouldn't be missing them.
So no, Clint isn't going to tattle on him. Is going to lie his ass off to any cops that come looking, even. Not because he has a tendency to adopt strays like Bobbi accused him of, but because he's not a shit person. At least not on Saturdays. Jury's still out on Mondays.
"Right now," Clint says simply. He snags his keys and pads out of his apartment, shutting the door with Lucky still on the inside, despite the disapproving bark he receives at the action. He walks down the hall without a care for the fact that he's just in PJ pants and a hole-ridden t-shirt, leading the kid towards the stairs and then pausing to raise an eyebrow at him.
"Any preference?"
The kid hesitates, eyes flicking around, and then he says, "I like to be up high."
Clint crooks a smile, and begins heading upstairs. A kid after his own heart.
The kid moves silently, that's for damn sure. Clint's hearing might already be shit, but he hasn't been in this business for as long as he has without being able to pick up shit like that. No, this kid is silent in a way that means one of two things: training, or abuse (which is just training of another kind, really). And considering not everyone is like Natasha or Matt, or him, even, odds say abuse.
They reach Apartment R, and Clint unlocks the door and pushes it open, walking in first to let the kid stay at his back. It might make Clint's shoulders a little twitchy, but he highly doubts the kid is gonna attack him, and if it makes the kid feel better, then he can keep the strength position for as long as he wants.
"Here we are," Clint says, gesturing around vaguely. "Casa de you. Seem good?"
The kid turns in a slow circle, taking it all in, and seems to approve. It's similar to Clint's own, with a wide open space and then a smaller loft up above. The kid wanders over to the big windows, and something about him seems to actually relax, a slow breath escaping him as he looks at the view.
(It's not a particularly great view, but it's open, and that's far better than just facing a brick wall or something.)
"Seems great," the kid says, a thread of real honesty in his voice, and then heads back over to Clint as he unzips a pocket of his duffle. He pulls out a wad of cash, and Clint offers it a blink, deciding immediately that he is Not Going To Ask.
"First and last month's rent, right?"
Clint smiles again, amused. "You see that on a TV show or something? Naw, kid, I'm not taking your money right now. You can pay me at the end of the month."
The kid's brow furrows slightly, but he doesn't argue, tucking the money back away.
"Come find me later," Clint says. "Can sign a lease, or whatever. Right now I'm going back to bed. Welcome to the building."
"Thanks!" the kid calls back as Clint shuts the door between them, and he waves despite the fact that he isn't visible anymore. Then he does exactly what he said he was going to do, and heads right back to his own apartment, collapsing onto the couch to fall back asleep.
That's the plan, at least. Until Lucky decides to thump his heavy dog body down on his chest.
"Aw, Lucky, no."
The kid—Dick Grayson is his name, Clint learns sometime the day after—is a great tenant.
Or, at least, he's a quiet one. Keeps to himself, seems to spend all of his time either in his apartment or up on the roof (though never when there are people already up there—no potlucks for him). If he has a job, or goes out anywhere, Clint doesn't see him do it, but it's not like Clint's trying to keep track of him.
He's not, honestly. He's just. Curious. And it's not like there's a lot for him to do at the moment; Ivan's bros are taken care of for the time being, no Hydra goons are attacking the city, no aliens coming out of nowhere—Clint could go look for trouble, of course, but he'd never hear the end of it from Tasha if he wound up in some actual shit.
Dick definitely is avoiding all the other people in the building. Everyone who lives in this place is always up in each other's business, so someone new coming to live here is enough to get all of their attention. Even more so since Dick is a fucking kid, and there are enough parents in the building that it's gotta be tugging on their heartstrings.
But Dick avoids them all. It's almost impressive that he manages to do it, and that no one ever catches him coming and going. There isn't a fire escape attached to Dick's apartment, so he can't be getting out that way, and frankly Clint has started wondering if maybe he has some spider-type powers before he ends up running into the kid in the middle of the night.
It's just past one in the morning, and Clint is just getting home after working with Matt on some shit Hand case that ended with them both winding up in a dumpster (again). He smells and he's tired and is looking forward to a shower, and there's Dick, coming down the main staircase without another soul in sight to see him.
Dick freezes for a moment, apparently caught off-guard by running into Clint, and then he seems to take in the rest of Clint—blood on his arm from a bullet graze, bow in his hand, purple arrow on his chest—and, with feeling, says, "Fuck."
Clint blinks, not expecting the reaction. It's not like his identity is secret, he's not trying to hide it at all. And usually when people 'learn' it they either have a pretty neutral reaction (like almost everyone in the building, and most people in the city, really) or a more positive one, since Clint is technically a hero. He can't say he's ever had someone react like that.
"Uh," Clint says. He doesn't know if he has the brain power to handle all of...that. "You—didn't know?"
"No," Dick says, and he sounds annoyed about it. Jeez, this reaction is throwing Clint off. "Trust me, I wouldn't have chosen to live here if I realized the landlord is a freaking superhero."
He blinks at Dick. Yeah, he definitely doesn't have the brain power for this right now. Having a reaction like this might mean Dick's on, like, the other side of things, and Clint is Tired. He doesn't want to fight a baby supervillain right now.
"Right," Clint says. "Okay. Is this gonna end in a fight? Because if not I really want to wash off the dumpster."
Dick blinks back at him. Then he frowns, and the way he scans Clint is nearly analytical. "Christ, dude, did you seriously go out and pick a fight with cracked ribs? How's your breathing?"
Clint doesn't have the energy to ask how Dick knew he already had busted ribs, so he doesn't bother. He's going to take this all in stride. "Yup I did."
Dick sighs, and there's something long-suffering about it that has Clint giving a half-smile, instantly reminded of Kate. And Natasha. And, well, everyone he teams up with, really. But not usually from people he's only had two conversations with.
"Come on," Dick says, and turns to head right back up the stairs. But instead of climbing all the way to his apartment, he stops at Clint's floor, walking down the hall to Apartment H and waiting for Clint to unlock it.
"Let me look at your ribs," Dick says firmly as he shuts the door behind him, gesturing for Clint to take his shirt off. Clint, too used to having friends boss him around for first aid or whatever, doesn't bother arguing. Instead he sets down his bow and offers Lucky some pets before sitting down on the couch and pulling off his shirt with a wince. The blood makes the shirt cling to his arm for a moment, and it stings as it releases, but feels better once it's gone.
Dick sits down beside him, a laser focus in his eyes as he looks over Clint's slightly bruised chest, and the no longer bleeding graze on his arm.
"Where's your first aid kit?" Dick asks, and heads to the kitchen when Clint tells him. Lucky pads after him, nudging intently at his leg, and Dick blinks down at the dog with a distant smile, scratching him behind the ears as he reaches up with the other hand to grab the kit. Lucky gives a happy woof, and Dick's smile briefly takes on a slightly more real quality before fading once more.
He returns with the kit and sits back down, pulling out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton swabs. He cleans off Clint's arm with practiced movements, and then examines the graze before saying, "You don't need stitches. I'm just gonna wrap it."
"Sure," Clint says agreeably, still trying to wrap his head around the child currently giving him medical treatment with what is clearly a lot of practice.
After wrapping his arm and securing the bandage in place with a couple clips, he moves to Clint's chest, pressing with delicate—and calloused—fingers in all the right places.
"If I told you to not go out and patrol for a few days to let these heal up a bit, would you listen?" Dick asks, though it seems like it's mainly a rhetorical question, even though he doesn't really know Clint.
"I don't really patrol," Clint offers, because clearly this kid has something locked in his head and Clint is not really an asshole where it counts. "That's more Daredevil's thing. Or Spider-Man's. I just kinda—" He waves a hand aimlessly.
Dick hums and nods. Something in his shoulders seems to relax.
"You do this a lot?" Clint asks, and Dick's eyes snap up to meet his. "The taking care of other people, thing?"
Dick pauses, and he seems to really consider the question. After a moment he huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn't seem to have any humor in it.
"I guess so, yeah," he says. "Not...anymore, though. But—for a long time."
Clint hesitates, then thinks screw it and asks, "There anyone who's going to be coming after you?"
Not is there anyone looking, or anyone missing you, or anything with positive connotations. Because runaways who are used to looking after others don't tend to have an overabundance of happy life experiences, even less positive relationships with grown-ups. It seems more and more likely to Clint that there's nothing particularly pleasant waiting out there for Dick—the question is whether or not something bad is going to follow.
"I don't know," Dick says after a moment, and oh, Clint understands that tone of voice. He understands that helplessness, that hurt. And he mutters a curse inside his head towards whatever person made another kid in this world feel like this.
"Well if they do," Clint says, collapsing back against the couch, head thudding against the wall, "you can send 'em my way. I'm pretty good at straightening people out."
For the first time since they met, a bright laugh escapes Dick, his expression lighting up with real amusement, eyes crinkling. It makes him seem less weighed down than he has so far, and Clint smirks back, pleased with himself even if he's a little disgruntled at Dick laughing at his offer of protection. He could totally protect this kid. He'll see.
"You'll see," Clint mutters, eyes slipping shut with exhaustion. "I'm Hawk Guy, I could take whatever asshole is after you."
Dick laughs again, far more softly this time, and his voice is warm when he says, "Sure. Thanks, Hawk Guy."